800 Miles to Remember
by Synbou
Summary: Don shows up at a crime scene with amnesia. All he can recall are numbers.
1. Prologue: Don

Series: Numb3rs  
Season: 3  
Part 1/?

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: Numb3rs and its lovely characters don't belong to me. They do to CBS. Unknown OC belongs to me. We all know the drill…

**_A/N I: Thank you Celadon for beta-reading, for teaching me American English, and for your support. :-)_**

**_A/N II: I made a few assumptions based on the props that were shown on the show. First assumption: _**Don has a personal car, one he uses when he is not working or on call.**_ Second assumption: _**Don's address is the8111 Aguacate Street. **_Third assumption:_ **Charlie's house is located at 580 Elcate Street. **_Forth assumption_**: Don has friends other than FBI colleagues.

**_synopsis:_** Don shows up at an old crime scene with amnesia. All he can recall are numbers. Now, it is up to Charlie and the FBI team to help Don remember who he is and make sense of those numbers that are filling his mind.

**800 Miles To Remember**

**Prologue: 32nd Street and Manchester **

I found myself at the corner of 32nd Street and Manchester. I took in my surroundings. I looked for anything that might trigger a recollection. Unfortunately, only the street sign with the number 32nd was vaguely familiar. I knew the number was significant. In fact, it was just as important as the other numbers that had led me to my present location. I breathed deeply and gathered the strength necessary to keep on going. Now, if only I knew which side of the 32nd Street I was suppose to take. I finally decided to go with the easiest and fastest way, making a right turn on the red light.

I drove slowly through a residential area. I was thankful for the absence of traffic as I kept my pace lower than the allowed speed limit. It gave me the opportunity to appraise every house and to take note of their addresses. As the numbers grew from the 30s to the 40s, I became more and more convinced that I was heading in the correct direction. The number I was looking for was in the 50s. Moreover, I knew I would find it on the left side of the street.

I parked my car in front of a blue and white ordinary bungalow. I noticed right away the yellow ribbon with "POLICE" written on it. It was covering the front door. It was hard to miss. I felt a knot form in the pit of my stomach. Something bad had happened here. I just knew it. If only I could remember what that was.

The number "8" flashed into my mind. I shook my head hoping to clear my thoughts. Like any other numbers I had recalled so far, this one was just there, deprived of any significant meaning at first. I could rest assured, however, that it would come sooner or later. As my eyes fixed on the yellow tape on the door, I dreaded where this new number would lead me. I drew in a calming breath before stiffly getting out of the car. Pain radiated from my back and hip injuries. I used the car for support as long as it took for me to even out my ragged breathing. Once the pain had subsided to a throb, I slowly made my way towards the house, limping as I went.

I stood in front of the main entrance for several minutes, fixing it like an idiot. I was having second thoughts about what to do next. If I was to go past that yellow police ribbon, I would obviously disturb a crime scene. If I was to respect the law, I might never know what was inside that house and what had brought me to it. Even more distressing, I might never remember who I was. I was bound to conclude that I was in trouble either way.

I tried the door knob against my better judgment. It was locked. Well, I though, maybe I had a key. After all, my key chain had led me back to my car some time ago. Unfortunately, none of the keys fitted that particular lock. I sighed with disappointment. Trying to open the door was one thing. Breaking it down was another. I limped to the side and peaked through one of the windows. The house was dark and empty except for a few pieces of furniture. I decided to go around the back and try my luck over there. If it turned out that I had to break down a door, I might as well be discrete about it.

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**TBC**

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading. And yes, more is coming. ;-) **


	2. 2 days earlier: Megan

Disclaimer: See part 1.

**_A/N I: Thank you all for your support. Special thanks to Celadon for beta-reading and for your support. :-) I made a few assumptions based on the props that were shown on the show – see the prologue._**

**800 Miles To Remember **

**Part 1: Two days earlier**

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**Chapter 1: Megan. **

I raced to my desk and picked up the ringing phone. "Agent Reeves," I answered the call.

"Agent Reeves, this is Nancy from dispatch, I have Special Agent in Charge Clinton Hatfield from the Albuquerque Bureau on the line. He's calling about Agent Eppes."

Instinctively, I glanced over at my Team Leader's desk. His work area was still undisturbed. Don had taken the last ten days off so he could make a road trip to New Mexico and meet up with some friends of his. The team had been expecting him back in the office this morning, but he had not shown up so far. Being late was unusual for Don, however his tardiness had not been a cause for worry – well, until now. Unsure if I should feel curious or concerned, I instructed Nancy to ring SAC Hatfield through

"Thank you for waiting, Sir. I have Agent Megan Reeves on the line for you. You may go ahead," Nancy said before disconnecting.

"Good morning Agent Reeves."

"Good morning to you to, Sir," I greeted the senior agent. "I was informed that you are calling regarding Special Agent Don Eppes," I said, not wasting any time.

"Yes. I understand you're part of Don's team. I've been trying to reach him with no success. He was due back in the office today. Have you heard from him yet?"

"No, Sir. I haven't," I replied. SAC Hatfield's use of my team leader's first name did not go unnoticed. I wandered if their affiliation was only work related or if it extended to friendship. I could not tell based only on Hatfield's professional tone of voice. "It's unusual for Agent Eppes to be late. However, it's still early. He might have stopped by Charlie's house to say "hi" to his brother and father."

"I was hoping Don would have at least called them. Unfortunately, neither Alan nor Charlie had heard from him when I talked to them this morning. I tried not to worry his father, but as you might know, it's hard to hide things to Alan Eppes."

I felt my hand cramp over the phone receiver in respond to his comment. "Sir, is there cause for worry?"

"I'm afraid there is, Agent Reeves." Hatfield responded gravely. A shiver went up my spine. "At 5:24 this morning, Don called my house from his cell phone. He was at the hospital in Socorro, here in New Mexico. He had found the Yucca Killer's latest victim – _alive_ – and brought him to the ER himself. When Agent Ramirez and I got to Socorro, Don was nowhere to be found. A security officer handed me his badge. It had been found in the jacket the boy had been wrapped in. Witnesses confirmed that a man fitting Don's description had brought the child in, however no one could ID him one hundred percent."

"What about that Yucca Killer?" I asked.

"Still out there," Hatfield answered. "Don had already contacted the local authorities in order to track him down. But again, that was done over the phone and no one saw him."

"Do you think Don might have gone back to where he found the victims while he was waiting for you?"

"It's a possibility," Hatfield said grimly. "What I fear is that they might have found each other."

I did not like the sound of that. "What do you have on this Yucca Killer?"

In the minutes that followed, SAC Hatfield shared some disturbing details about the case. He promised to have more information forwarded to me as soon as possible. We agreed to form a joint task force in order to find our colleague and friend – _alive_, we hoped. As soon as our call was disconnected, I immediately pressed the speed dial button for Don's cell phone number. I cursed when I reached voicemail after the 8th ring. So Don's phone was on, but he was not answering or could not do so. I tried his apartment number, just in case. Same thing. That left calling back his father and brother. I sighed, dreading the call I was about to make to them. Informing Alan and Charlie that a search for Don had been put out across three states was going to worry the pair to no end.

I glanced at my watch, a gesture that immediately reminded me of my boss. It was 9:18 a.m. Maybe Colby and David would have the time to swing by Don's apartment before their interview with the DiMatteos. Since nobody could ID him for sure in Socorro, it was possible that Don was back in L.A. but could not answer the phone. It was unlikely – almost wishful thanking on my part – still, a visit to his place was worth a look. I picked up the phone again and hit the speed dial button for David's cell.

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**TBC**

**A/N: More is coming in Part 1: Chapters 2 and 3. **


	3. 2 days earlier: David

Disclaimer: See prologue.

**_A/N I: Thank you for all your support. Special thank you Celadon for beta-reading and for your support. :-) I made a few assumptions based on the props that were shown on the show – see the prologue._**

**800 Miles To Remember **

**Part 1: Two days earlier**

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**Chapter 2: David**

"Stop banging on the door, the guy's obviously not there," a young woman dressed as flight attendant told Colby and me. "I don't know how you got into this secure building, but I would like you to leave."

I showed her my badge. "Special Agent David Sinclair, FBI," I introduced myself.

"Oh, you're _David_," she remarked. She met my partner's eyes. "You must be Colby, then. Sorry, I don't remember your full name."

"Granger – Special Agent Colby Granger – and _you_ are?"

"Obviously, I'm D. D's next door neighbour," she replied fondly referring to our boss.

"_Obviously_," Colby said returning her smile. He looked down at her name tag. "Laurie, have you seen _D. D._?"

She frowned at him for using the nickname she had given Don Eppes. "Not since he left Santa Fe four days ago. He actually departed a day ahead of us. He was working today. He should be back by now. He was even planning on going back to his office last night to prepare a statement or something. I believe he said that he had court tomorrow, or is it today? What's going on? He didn't show up for work?"

"Court's actually tomorrow and no, he didn't show up at the office yet," I confirmed.

"Now, that's not like D.D. at all," she said puzzled and somewhat worried. She retrieved her cell phone from her purse. "Well, I'm _obviously_ just walking in the door, but my husband came back yesterday. Let me call him. Don. and he often go running together early in the morning." Her cell phone glued to her left ear, she rolled her suitcase to her apartment door. "Hi Love… Yeah, I just walked in the building. Say, have you seen or heard from D.D ever since you got back? … Two of his team members are here. They say he hasn't shown up for work yet… I know, that's _exactly_ what I said too, hence the nickname Clinton gave him … Was he coming straight back to L.A? ... Detour? … What did he mean by that? Oh? Okay, then. I'll tell them that. I'm going to let you go. I don't want to hold these guys back if something happened to Don. … I'll keep you posted for sure. Bye." She clicked the cell phone off.

"I take it your husband didn't see him, either," I summarized. "Don was planning on taking a detour?"

"Apparently so," Laurie replied. "He told Marc, my husband, that he was going to make a detour _against his better judgment_."

"Now, I'm the one asking: _what did he mean by that?_" Colby said.

"When Marc asked, all Don told him was that it related to work. Despite the fact that he was on vacation, Don wanted to take the opportunity of being in New Mexico to follow up on an old case of his. That's pretty much all Marc knew. Don isn't all that forthcoming when it comes to talking about his work. This is understandable considering the sensitive nature of what you guys do. I can make a few phone calls and ask our other friends if they heard from him or knew where he was going."

"That would be really appreciated, Laurie," I told her. I gave her my card. "Please, call me anytime to let me know what you find out."

"I will," she said. "You got us worried now. Could you tell Don to give us a call once you find him?"

"Certainly," I promised. "Thank you, again."

I headed back towards the exit and noticed that Colby was trailing behind. "Laurie, what does _D.D_. stands for?"

"You know Agent Granger," she began wisely. "Your boss has a gun and knows how to use it. I think it would be better if I hold on to that little piece of info, for both our sakes."

I cracked a smile. "I think that it would be better, too. Come on, Man," I told my partner. "Let's go find out what detour our boss took _against his better judgment_."

"Yeah… You know, I don't like this one bit. Don always thinks things through. He doesn't take unnecessary risks. This whole thing doesn't sound like him," Colby was forced to agree with Laurie and her husband.

"Maybe he wasn't expecting any problems," I pointed out. "He might not be in any trouble at all. I'm sure there's a good explanation for him being late."

"Late, maybe, but unreachable on a working day…" Colby was not convinced. To tell the truth, neither was I. "What do you think D.D. means?" he asked me on the way out.

I shook my head. "Do you really want to know?"

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**TBC**

**A/N: I hope that you liked that small chapter. More is coming in Chapter 3: Colby.**


	4. 2 days earlier: Colby

Disclaimer: See the prologue.

**_A/N I: Thank you Celadon for beta-reading and for your support. :-) I made a few assumptions based on the props that were shown on the show – see the prologue._**

**800 Miles To Remember **

**Part 1: Two days earlier**

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**Chapter 3: Colby**

Upon our return to the office, David and I found Megan and Charlie in one of the conference rooms. They were outlining the chronology of a case on a board.

"Is there anything new on Don?" I asked in lieu of greeting. My boss and I might have hit a rough spot not so long ago – following the Michele Kim's case – still I considered him one of the finest men I ever worked with and a good friend. I didn't like the idea of him being MIA one bit.

"They found his cell phone through its GPS chip. It had been discarded on the hospital parking lot," Megan reported.

"So it's safe to assume that Don was at the hospital when he called SAC Hatfield," I stated.

"Something really bad must have happened," Charlie voiced everyone's fear. He was calm, yet his concern for his brother's wellbeing was written all over his drawn features. "It's not like Don to disappear like that."

"Yeah, that's what Laurie was saying too," I pointed out.

"Laurie?" Megan raised an eyebrow.

"Laurie's and her husband Marc are Don's next door neighbours," David clarified. "Apparently, they're good friends of Don's."

"They call him _D.D_," I added. _Obviously_, I was still bothered by not knowing what the nickname stood for.

Charlie and Megan exchanged a quizzical look.

"It seems Don has been friend with them for some time," David continued.

On his part, my partner had been somewhat annoyed by the fact that he had never heard Don talked about his friends and neighbours during all the time they had worked together. Sure Don had mentioned doing stuff with some friends before, but those occasions were rare. We had both fallen in the habit of thinking that when our Team Leader left the office, he was going straight to Charlie's place.

"What do we really know about his personal life?" David had asked me in the car.

"What personal life?" I had retorted. "Even at Charlie's he ends up working on one case or another. I'll admit I don't know much about what he does in the little spare time he has other than the fact that he likes to watch sports on T.V. Yet the guy finds the time to stay in shape. We know now that he goes jogging with his neighbour. For some reason I always thought he did stuff like that alone."

"His neighbours went to Santa Fe along with him." David's explanation brought me back to the present. "Laurie said that Don left a day ahead of them. He was planning on doing a detour _against his better judgement_ – his words."

"Don was on vacation," Charlie stated. "It's not unlike my brother to cut his vacation short because of a case. Although, this time he had promised Dad that he wouldn't do that. Maybe I shouldn't say so, but- well, it may be important- Don really needed the time off. He was such in a dark mood lately that Dad fears he might be burning out. I think Don's aware of it too. Going down to Socorro and looking into that case might have gone against his better judgement and the promise he had made to Dad."

"It's possible, Charlie," Megan agreed. "It's also possible that he decided to follow on the case without any backup or that he thought it was a waste of time."

"Possible, but unlikely," Charlie refuted. "I don't think Don would have gone so far out of his way if he hadn't had at least a hunch. We looked into this case together before he left. He didn't let on that he would be following up on it. The case had surfaced in a conversation he had had with some friend in Albuquerque as he was planning his trip. He had me take a look into it as a favour to his old team. I helped him in narrowing down the possibilities of where and when the killer was more likely to hit. That said, we didn't come up with a solid lead."

"Or he didn't share any of his leads with you if he had one," I remarked, thinking that Don wouldn't tell his brother that he was about to break the promise he had made to their father's.

"We looked into this case before Dad made him promise to stay away from work during his vacation. I didn't think about the case again since – as I said – we had come up with nothing conclusive. But that could stand from the fact that Don didn't give me all the facts. He didn't show me all this…" Charlie said, referring to all the gruesome pictures outlined on the board.

The bodies on the pictures were so mutilated that I understood why Don had naturally kept them away from the mathematician. My boss never liked to expose his younger brother to graphic stuff more than he needed to.

"He probably didn't have all of this here in LA," Megan said. "Those are part of the material SAC Hatfield had forwarded to us."

"So, what do we know about this killer?" David inquired.

"Not much," Megan replied. "We suspect he's a white male in his mid-twenties to late thirties with a high level of education. He's really meticulous. He doesn't leave much behind. He disposed some of the bodies in very remote area where he had to carry them. So he's in good shape. He has been at it for at least eight years. He made twelve victims that we know of so far – boys and girls, age ranging from eight to eighteen. There were years during which he hit twice and years during with he didn't hit at all. We don't know what his trigger is. He doesn't follow a clear pattern except to leave a bouquet of yucca filamentosa on the bodies of his victims. The yucca is actually the New Mexico's state flower."

Charlie brought up a graph on the screen. "Don and I determined that he would most likely kill again at this time of year because it's blooming season. But again the killer hit in other periods of the year and did so across the state." Charlie brought a map of New Mexico on the screen. Twelve white dots were contrasting with the dark bleu background. "Interestingly, in seventy-eight percent of all cases, the victims were found along the Rio Grande from Albuquerque as far down as Truth or Consequences."

"That's quite a stretched," I remarked. "Are we assuming we'll find Don along the Rio Grande?"

"It gives the people over there a place to start," Megan said. "As for us, let's start by going through these reports as if we would bring our findings to Don. It might give us an idea of what he might have clued in."

"You want us to try to get into Don's mind," I rephrased.

"Now that's a scary thought," David stated.

"That's for sure," Charlie agreed. "Considering that Don's mind's a bad neighbourhood to be in, especially once a case over."

"Well, this case isn't over and Don's life might depend on what we find," Megan reminded us. "Don's been missing for more than five hours. Time isn't on our side."

She was right. The more time passed, lower were our chances of finding Don alive – assuming he still was… I kicked myself mentally. Of course Don Eppes was still alive. He had to be – _he had to be…_

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**TBC**

**A/N: More is coming in Part 2: Current day**


	5. Current day: Don

Disclaimer: See part Prologue.

**_A/N: Thank you Celadon for beta-reading this chapter and for your support. :-) I made a few assumptions based on the props that were shown on the show – see the prologue._**

**800 Miles to Remember**

**Part 2: Current day. **

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**Chapter 4: Don**

"And you say you don't remember anything about who you are?" Detective Zack Saunders was looking down at me expectantly. His facial expression was otherwise neutral. His scepticism was just barely dripping from his deep tone of voice. He was a tall man, about 6'2", with short salt and pepper hair. I judged him to be in his late forties.

I was leaning against a police cruiser for support this time. My body was tilted to the right so that my left side did not touch it. Detective Saunders had been mindful of my injuries as he had loosely handcuffed my writs in front of my body instead of behind as it was usually the case. How I knew that? I would not have been able to explain it. Still, the position was uncomfortable.

It was getting more and more difficult to hide how tired and in pain I really was. I was not feeling like pretending anymore either – even to myself. My resolve had actually started to break a while ago when I had run out of the house in order to throw up in the nearest flower bed. It had left me with the vague impression that throwing up at crime scenes was not _my_ thing. It had been at that particularly awkward moment that I had been joined by two patrol officers and a detective. I had shaken my head, cursing my luck – or more so lack of.

I swallowed. My mouth was as dry as the earth beneath my feet. "That's right, I can't remember who I am or what happened to me," I answered the detective's question truthfully. "Although according to my driver's license, I know that my name's Don Eppes. My date of birth's July 15, 1971. I live in Los Angeles."

"You're a long way from home, Mr. Eppes," Detective Saunders remarked.

I eyeballed the quiet neighbourhood where I had found the 56, 32nd Street. "Yeah, it's not like I imagined LA, either. How far away from it am I, anyway?"

"About 800 miles," Saunders replied. "Do you have any idea why you drove all the way out here from your home, Mr. Eppes?"

"Your guess is as good as mine at the moment," I told him, trying to ignore the troubling in my head. It had been aching ever since I could remember and the hot sun was doing nothing to make it less persistent.

"Is this your car?" Saunders pursued his line of questioning.

"According to its registrations papers, it is."

"You mind if I take a look inside?"

Somehow, I knew he was going to ask me that very question. "Go ahead," I said. "The bloody wet clothes are mine and I assume so is the gun that you're gonna find in the suitcase."

The detective gave me a sideways look as he opened the trunk of the silver Mitsubishi 4 door sedan. "Are you always that straight forward, Mr. Eppes?"

I shrugged. Saunders was not taking my claim of amnesia at face value. I could not blame him. I doubted I would believe him if the roles were reverse. "Something tells me that I'm not one to beat around the bush," I finally said. "Then again, it looks like I recently got into a fight with one and lost."

"Looks that way," Saunders agreed as he retrieved a drying pair of jeans covered with blood on the left thigh and lower back. The stain was consistent with the one forming on my current pair pants. Fortunately, my black jacket was hiding most of it. "It seems that I might have overlooked the severity of your injuries, Mr. Eppes. I apologize." Saunders turned to one of the patrol officers who was standing by. "Please, radio for an ambulance," he told him.

"I don't think that's necessary," I argued. Truth be told, I definitely needed to see a doctor, but for some bizarre reason I wanted to decide where and when to see one. The idea of being "taken over" by EMTs was making me nervous. It was threatening my already precarious sense of independence.

Saunders examined my physical condition more carefully. "We're going to radio for an ambulance, regardless," he informed me in a tone that left no room for argument. The detective was a man who was thorough and knew how to do his job. I had to admit that I liked that about him. He turned his attention back to the car. Going through the suitcase, he asked. "What's the first thing you remember?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to pinpoint my first memory. "Being in my car, driving."

"You were driving with a head injury?" Saunders' query had a hint of reproach in it.

"Who said I had a head injury? My head hurts, but my vision is clear," I said. "I just can't remember anything meaningful except numbers, and even that's hazy. Does the number "8" mean anything to you?" Saunders gave me a quizzical look. "I mean when it comes to this place. All I can remember ever since I got here is the number "8". I didn't go far enough into the house to see one."

"You broke into this house hoping you would see the number "8"?" The detective questioned my motive.

"No, not particularly," I replied. "I just know this place's part of the puzzle. How can I explain this? I've been seeing numbers in my head – numbers written on the car digital clock, on radio, on street signs, on houses, even on chalk boards. Sometimes, I recalled the numbers after just seeing them, as was the case for this address. One number led me to another, who led me to the next."

"And these numbers led you here?" Saunders was sceptical.

"They did."

"And you've been at this for how long?"

"A day. Maybe two," I drew in a deep breath, trying to sooth my increasingly flustered nerves. "The first number I remember clearly is 432, the exit on the interstate. It led me to Place 400 where I made a left turn until I reached Second Avenue. I think- I think there were others before that. I just- I can't-" My voice broke and I cursed my sudden display of weakness. I needed to remain strong and in control. I needed to sound more confident than I felt, if only for my sake. I tried to bring some moisture to my lips, but without much success. My mouth was too dry. "Water- I have a bottle of water on the front seat. Could I have it, please?"

Detective Saunders took pity on me. "Sure. You look pretty dehydrated." He shut down the trunk, rounded the car, and retrieved the bottle of water. He was closing the front passenger door when the second patrol officer walked up to him.

"The Feds are here," he informed him.

My head sprang up. The _Feds? _

"That was quick," I heard the detective observe. Saunders handed the bottle of water to one of the officers. "Let Mr. Eppes have a drink while I go talk to them," he continued.

_Man, what kind of mess was I in? _

I tried moisturizing my lips again. It brought my attention back to my need for water. "Could I sit somewhere?" I asked the officer as he handed me the bottle. He nodded and opened the door of the back seat of the police cruiser. I sat carefully and worked on removing the cap of the bottle with my handcuffed hands. It was awkward. Actually, everything felt awkward – out of place. Letting the cap fall to the ground, I brought the rim of the bottle to my mouth and drank greedily. The water had warmed up. Still, it was welcomed.

"Better not drink so fast," the officer advised me.

"Right," I mumbled back. I inhaled deeply. I hoped it would even out my breathing. It had been fast ever since I had run out of the house to vomit the little water I had managed to get into me. I concentrated on relaxing, phasing out the environment around me just for a moment.

"You're breaking into houses, now?" a female voice pulled me back from my slumber. I could not remember dozing off, but the cobwebs associated with sleep were unmistakable.

I looked up to see two newcomers – a man and a woman. I blinked a few times in order to clear my vision. "What?"

"They say you broke into this house," she rephrased.

I stared at her, dazed. "Found the key under the flower pot," I ventured.

She knelt in front of me. I studied her more closely. She was a tall young woman in her early thirties. Her long light brown hair was tied at the back. Her smile was friendly and genuine. Her facial expression appeared relaxed. Still, I could read concern in her eyes as she was discreetly appraising my condition. "You don't recognize me, do you?"

"I'm sorry. I don't," I apologized. My voice sounded rough to my ears.

"Not even me?" her companion asked. My gaze moved up to him. He was standing right beside her. He seemed tense and unsure of what to do. He was looking down at me clearly worried.

"It seems you have the advantage," I told them.

"I'm Megan – Special Agent Megan Reeves – and this is Charlie," she introduced.

She followed my gaze back up to her companion. The man she had called Charlie looked so apprehensive that I felt compelled to give him a sympathetic smile. I took in his long curly hair, his red t-shirt hanging out of his jeans, and the grey shirt that he was wearing on top it. "Don't take me wrong, but you don't look much like a federal agent," I told him on a light tone. I was rewarded by a small grin.

"It's because I'm not," Charlie explained. "You on the other hand…"

"_Me?_ I'm a federal agent?" I asked with disbelief.

"Special Agent Don Eppes, FBI," Megan Reeves supplemented.

Similar to finding what my name was by going through my wallet earlier that day, learning my title and related profession failed to evoke a memory. I felt totally at lost and confused. I looked from Megan to Charlie. These people knew who I was. How come I could not remember them? How come I could not remember _who I was_?

"It's going to be okay," Megan told me, picking up on my growing distress.

Again, I tried to swallow without much success. I needed water. Every inch of my body was yearning for some. I clumsily fumbled with the bottle. Megan reached for it before it hit the ground.

Agent Reeves looked over her shoulder and addressed Detective Saunders. "Could we have those handcuffs removed, please? They won't be necessary." He nodded. She moved aside to allow him to take the restrictive bracelets off.

Relief immediately washed over me.

Charlie was at my feet the moment Saunders had backed away. He took the bottle of water Megan Reeves was offering him. "It's going to be all right, Don. Here, have some water." I reached for the bottle with a shaking hand. Charlie guided it to my mouth. I gulped the water down. "Easy," he cautioned. "You don't want to choke on it."

I lowered the bottle momentarily and met the younger man's brown eyes. "If you're not- not a Fed, who are you?"

"I'm Charlie… Charles Edward Eppes. I'm you're brother, Don," he replied.

I was so _not_ ready for _that_.

"You're my brother…" Deep down, I knew what it meant to have a brother. It meant that I belonged, that I was not alone, and that I shared a history with someone. Most of all, it meant that I was cared for and that I was, hopefully, returning those feelings. I was obviously loved by this young man – my brother – who was now appearing to me as total stranger. It was disconcerting. "I'm- I don't- I mean- I don't remember you. I'm sorry," I stammered. I felt a pang of guilt as a mixture of anguish, hurt, and sadness clouded his facial features.

"Don, it's okay. Everything's going to come back to you with time," he tried to comfort me with a smile that did not reach eyes. I was uncertain which one of us he was trying to convince the most. Unfortunately, his reassurances were doing nothing to ease my grief.

I shook my head. "No- no, it's not okay," I told him. "I'm supposed to know who you are- _who I am_, but I don't." My heart was pounding in my chest now. Sweat was rolling down my forehead and into my eyes. Darkness was lurking in my peripheral vision. "All I can see in my head are those numbers."

"Numbers? You see numbers in your head? I thought _I_ was the one stuck with that," he attempted to joke. It only confused me even more. "What numbers do you see?"

"I-I don't know anymore. All this… It doesn't make sense."

"Tell me anyway," Charlie encouraged me. "I'm good with numbers."

I squeezed my eyes in an effort to better concentrate. "I recalled an "8". Yeah… the last one was an "8". There was also "32", "56", "400", "88", and… Something…" The rest of my sentence melted into my dry mouth as my thoughts started to lose their coherence.

"Something?" Charlie repeated. "Don? Don! Stay with me! Look at me! Don, you have to stay awake. Can you do that for me, Bro? Come on, Donnie! Reopen those eyes for me."

I wanted to reach out to him and respond to his frantic demands, but I could not. I was getting engulfed in darkness.

"He's going into shock! Where's that ambulance?" I heard someone call in the distance just before the world totally faded away.

**123123123123**

**TBC**

**A/N: This part was a bit longer. I hope it made up for the shorter ones. Thank you all for your support. **


	6. Current day: Charlie

Disclaimer: See part Prologue.

_**A/N**__**: Thank you all for your support. **_

**800 Miles to Remember**

**Part 2: Current day. **

**1234567890**

**Chapter 5: Charlie.**

I was hovering over my older brother's still form as he lay unconscious in the ER of the University of New Mexico Hospital in Albuquerque. Don's body was tilted to the right so that less pressure was put on his injured left side. His skin was too pale, almost looking greyish under the florescent lighting. Don looked horribly fragile. Seeing him so worn out broke my heart. It reminded me of Mom… I wished Dad could have come along. I wished he was here right now. Both Dad and Don were my rocks. I was feeling deserted without them. Not for the first time, I drew in a deep breath as I tried to keep my concerns from turning into an overwhelming sense of dread. These strong feelings had been haunting me ever since Megan had told me that something bad might have happened to my brother while he was on vacation.

Working away at retracing Don's steps and the content of the last case we had looked at together before his leaving for Santa Fe had anesthetized my worries for a few hours, but nothing had protected me from the fear and anguish that had assaulted me when my older brother had collapsed into my arms. The ambulance ride had been more painful for me than for him as I had worried myself sick over his lack of responsiveness. I had been so scared of losing him on the way. I was still scared… Losing Don was a fear Dad and I had to face everyday. It had become exponentially more difficult to bear after Don had invited me to witness and even to take part in his day-to-day activities as an FBI agent. I had barely stepped into my brother's reality that I had been confronted by its harshness and dangers. It had been something that I had been sheltered from until then.

"I feel fortunate, you know," I was suddenly compelled to tell Don. "I rarely saw you ill or injured. It's a good thing too, because in 89 per cent of all those incidences, your condition was serious. The remaining 11 per cent were constituted of 5 per cent non-life-threatening injuries caused by potentially deadly weapons, for example: you being shot in the arm or doped up with morphine, and 6 per cent small ailments, such as the flu." I chuckled as an afterthought. "Yeah, it's a good thing you don't get those too often as well. You sure are cranky when you catch a cold. Lucky me, I can hide in the garage."

My half-hearted joke felt flat – only met by the continuous sound emitted by the medical paraphernalia surrounding my brother. I sighed deeply as I brushed Don's cheeks – careful not to get my hand in the way of the nasal cannula that was facilitating his breathing. I concentrated on the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. At a rate of 99 beats per minutes, Don's pulse was fast for someone as athletic as he. Two IV lines were attached to his body. One was delivering fluids while the other was supplying antibiotics. "If only you had gone to a hospital right after being injured, your health wouldn't have deteriorated so much."

"Charlie? Don?" Megan's called softly.

"Hey, Megan," I said looking up at my brother's partner. Thirty-five minutes after leaving the crime scene, Megan had finally been able to join Don and myself at the hospital. She had not done so alone. She was now accompanied by a tall African-American man – a fellow FBI agent, if the grey suit he was wearing was any indication. It was similar to the ones my brother's often wore to work. I often told Don that the suit was a dead give away. "He's not awake yet."

"How is he doing?" Megan asked.

"Not so great. The doctor should be back soon with the results of his preliminary tests."

"Charlie, I'd like you to meet Special Agent Clinton Hatfield."

"Nice to meet you," I said politely.

"Don's a good friend of my wife and mine. I wish we had had the chance to meet under different circumstances."

"Did you work with Don while he was here in Albuquerque?" I asked.

"Yes, I did. Don was my boss then. I took over his position as SAC when he left for LA. My wife and I stayed in contact with him over the years. Talking about Michele, she should be right along. She used to be Don's GP. She's probably the one holding up his Doctor."

"Did you find anything new while searching his car?" I asked them.

Megan lifted the beige folder she had been carrying. "This is Don's copy of the case we were looking at earlier this morning. It seems Don made some progress on the case based on your algorithms. He even came up with some of his own."

I frowned. "Don came up with algorithms?" I asked with disbelief.

"Well equations might be more accurate. You'll have to tell me," Megan pointed out. "The handwriting is a bit "strained", but it's definitely his."

"That's- well, I was about to say _that's great_, but-" I shook my head.

"But those algorithms and said progress also seemed to have put Don in trouble," Agent Hatfield finished my thought.

"In big trouble at that," an unknown female voice commented.

The two FBI agents made room to allow a tall and lean African-American woman to come through. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She had nice curly hair coming down to her shoulders. She was wearing a golden coloured blouse and a black pair of pants. Her attire was both professional and very flattering.

"Michele?" Hatfield asked his wife.

The Doctor gave her husband a sad smile. "He's exhausted and severely dehydrated. The dehydration put a serious strained on his vital organs – especially his left kidney which is deeply bruised. We're especially concerned about it and his prolonged state of unconsciousness. We'll be sending him for a CT scan in a few minutes. We'll also keep an eye on those burns and cuts that run down his left side. They're infected."

"I take it you're joining in on his care," Hatfield remarked.

"Yes, turns out I'm still listed as Don's GP."

"What do you think caused those wounds on his left side?" Agent Hatfield asked.

"I'll have to take a look at them, but Doctor DeRosa – Don's admitting physician – suspects it might have been caused by shrapnel. Don might have been cut and burned in an explosion." She met my gaze and gave me a kind mile. "You must be Professor Eppes?" she asked knowingly.

"Yes, I am, please call me Charlie," I replied, returning her smile.

"I will if you call me Michele. Clinton and I heard a lot about you, Charlie," she said. "Don's extremely proud of you. He probably doesn't tell you this often, but he loves you very much."

"It goes both ways," I told her, looking down fondly at my brother.

"I can tell." Michele put her hand on my shoulder. "We'll take good care of him, Charlie," she assured me. She then turned her attention to my brother. She brought her hand to his forehead where mine had been moments earlier. She took note of his pale complexion, his lack of responsiveness, and of the various numbers on the surrounding monitors. "Oh D.D., what happened to you?"

A man I recognized as Don's admitting physician joined our little gathering. "They're ready for us in radiology," he told Doctor Hatfield.

"Very good," Michele acknowledged. She turned back to Megan, her husband, and me. "How about you all go for coffee? I'll page Clinton once we're back. It should take about half an hour or so."

Sensing my hesitation at leaving my older brother, Michele put a hand behind my back. "Don's in good hands, Charlie, and I'll be with him all the way."

I drew in a deep breath, fighting a growing case of separation anxiety. "I'll see you in a little while, Don. I won't be far. I promise."

**123456789****0**

**A/N: There will be more of course. Stay tune.**


	7. Current day: Megan

Disclaimer: See part Prologue.

**_A/N: Again, thanks for the support. Note: this chapter - well it's more like a teaser - is not fully beta-ed._**

**800 Miles to Remember**

**Part 2: Current day. **

**1234567890**

**Chapter 6: Megan**

"This is just amazing!" Charlie repeated for the third time. I gave a sideways smile at Agent Hatfield. "I'll never accuse Don of not listening to my explanations ever again. Why does he always let on that he only understands about half of what I say – if even that?"

"Maybe he thinks he doesn't understand all that much," I hypothesized. "After all, Don never could measure up to you when it comes to mathematics."

"Right, I'm the genius he was compared to," Charlie empathized. "No matter how intelligent Don is – and he's very intelligent – he can't figure out math like I do. Yet, he's been exposed to a lot of what I do over the years."

"Like you're being exposed to what he does," I pointed out.

"I just didn't expect him to understand and replicate what I do to that level. Don doesn't even have a degree in applied mathematics." I had to smile at Charlie's amazement. I could imagine him drafting up math tests to evaluate his brother's knowledge already. "Megan, do you think he'll remember all this when he wakes up?"

"I hope so, Charlie," I said sincerely. "But what I hope the most is that he recalls who he is."

"Well, that goes without saying," Charlie remarked, his eyes back on my boss's case notes. "He managed the pattern of the killer's whereabouts using bubble soap theory. The math is not intricate, but the principle is there."

"Bubble soap theory?" asked Hatfield.

His question went unnoticed as Charlie continued to shuffle through the pages. Again, I smile at the senior agent, telling him silently to be patient.

"He also used an ANOVA to determine the probably of various variables being correlated… this is great work, Don," he mumble to himself.

"Charlie, do you think that we can determine where the killer could be now based on these notes?"

"Well, I can start with where he's been the most based on what Don found."

"The faster you can do that, the faster we can get on the killer's trail."

"I'm already on it."

**12234567890**

**TBC**

**A/N: I know it was short, but more is in the work. Be patient. **


	8. 3 weeks earlier: Alan

Disclaimer: See part Prologue.

_**A/N: Thank you Celadon for beta-reading and for your support. **_

**800 Miles to Remember**

**Part 3: Three weeks earlier. **

1234567890

**Chapter 7: Alan**

I was about to put the key into the lock of the front door when I heard it for the first time. Totally unprepared, I froze – my hand hanging in mid-air. I closed my eyes as I gave my full attention to the soft sounds coming from the interior of my house – correction: of my youngest son's house.

Standing still there on the porch, I was suddenly transported decades earlier. I remembered coming home from work to find Don or Charlie practicing the piano under the watchful eye of their teacher – Mrs. Pitre. Today, however, this was no piano lesson. Today, it sounded more like a private recital – a very private one at that. _Oh Donnie, you__'re so talented. Why won't you share that talent with us? _I instinctively knew my oldest son was the piano player. One could have argued that figuring this out was an easy task since Charlie had given up the piano a long time ago, but my deduction had more to do with Don's style. It was more natural. Don played music with feeling rather than with calculated rhythm. My first born reminded me of his mother. Like Margaret, sadly, he would keep his music to himself.

Time stood still momentarily for me as I listened to Don playing one song, start a second, then a third. The heat of the biting sun at my back reminded that I could not stand out there on the porch all afternoon. It was with a heavy heart that my hand reached for the door knob. I slowly pushed the front door open and silently walked inside. The music continued only for a few seconds – the sound of the last note lingering briefly in the now quiet room.

"I was wondering when you were going to come in," Don told me in a light tone.

I returned his smile. "I was enjoying a private concert. Jazz suits you well."

"You think?" my son questioned as he reached for the bottle of beer sitting on the top of the piano. It occurred to me that Margaret would have disapproved of the bottle near her precious instrument. I decided to let it slide, too happy to see Don back at it.

"I don't suppose I could have another song?" I ventured.

"What would you want to hear?" Don offered.

"How about: _When I think that I figured you out, you manage to surprise me again_?"

Don grinned. "Sorry, that one isn't in my repertoire."

"Well then, surprise me _again._"

My oldest son placed the bottle of beer back on the top of the piano. His hands moved to the keyboard. They rested there for an instant as he concentrated, searching for an inspiration – or was it more in an effort to forget that he had an audience. He started to play hesitantly at first, and then he did so with growing confidence. My heart swelled with happiness as I recognized one of my late wife's compositions. Don was honouring his mother's memory through her music. I sighed with contentment_. I__'m so proud of you, Donnie._

Don played two more songs for me before bringing down the lid over the keyboard and putting an end to the private concert.

"If you don't mind, I'll go back to bed for a few hours," he said.

"You're working again tonight?"

"Yeah, David and I have the 11:00 PM to 7 AM shift," Don replied. "He's going to pick me up by 10:30 since he's the one who dropped me off this morning."

I had forgotten that David had driven Don to the house a bit before 8 AM this morning. Both FBI agents had shared breakfast with Charlie and me before we both left for our respective occupations. Don must have decided to crash here instead of going back to his apartment. That explained why I hadn't seen his truck in the entryway.

"You go right ahead, Son," I told him. "I'll save you some dinner if you're not up by then."

"Thanks, Pop!" he said as he started to make his way upstairs.

As I made my own way to the kitchen, I couldn't help thinking how good it felt to see Don play the piano and look relaxed. He had been so stressed and dark lately that I was worried about his mental state. I could see the early signs of burnout in my son's entire demeanour. It wasn't good for him to get that way. Don needed to stay positive and alert. Otherwise, it could only mean trouble.

1234567890

TBC


	9. 3 weeks earlier: Charlie

Disclaimer: See part Prologue.

**_A/N: Thanks Celadon for beta-reading this chapter – twice. Thank you all for reading. _**

**800 Miles to Remember**

**Part 3: Three weeks earlier.**

**Chapter 8: Charlie**

"Who are you and what did you do with my son?" I heard my father asked my older brother as he followed him out of the kitchen.

I looked up form my laptop. "What's going on?"

"Believe it or not, Charlie, you're brother is going on vacation a week from now," Dad said as he pulled up a chair and sat across from me at the dining table.

"I'm impressed," I told Don, who now sat at my right, digging into some pasta. "You actually remembered that you're allowed vacation time?"

"You're one to talk, Chuck," Don pointed out, clearly referring to my overwhelming need to stay busy at all times. At least, _I_ knew how to keep busy with other things than work. I generally used my time off between semesters to go hiking, rock climbing, sky diving, surfing, and so on… When had I seen my brother do anything other than watch sports on TV or go to the batting cage in order to relax? When was the last time Don had left town for a few days for something other than work? I could not remember him doing so ever since he had come back from Albuquerque. I suspected that Don had been in the habit of using most of his extended vacation time to come home and visit mom and dad during the holidays. Those occasions had been easily quantifiable for they were so rare they created an oddball effect each time they occurred.

"Well, we're not talking about me," I quickly defused. "So how many days off are you taking?"

"Ten," Don replied.

I felt my eyebrows rise up. "In a row?"

"Well, yeah," Don answered as if it went without saying. Taking two full work weeks off might have been standard for the average person, but it was not the rule of thumb for Special Agent Don Eppes. For some reason, my brother had it figured that the FBI would crumble if he was to stay away from the office for too long. Of course, only our father could make Don admit that the weight of the government agency was not resting on his shoulders and he could do so only with marginal success.

Dad gave me a pointed look. "You understand my confusion, now?" he asked me.

I straightened up in my chair and met my older brother's gaze. "So what are you planning on doing during your time off?"

"I'm going to New Mexico," Don replied between two mouthfuls.

"Albuquerque?" I inquired.

"Santa Fe," Dad answered for him as Don was otherwise busy chewing his food. "He's going to meet some friends of his there."

"I'm going to Albuquerque too," my brother corrected him.

"Albuquerque," our father repeated. "You're not planning on doing some work over there, are you?"

"Dad, I'm going on vacation," Don reminded him. "No work. Well, I can't promise you that we won't talk a bit about work; after all, I'm meeting with some people from my old team, but no, no actual work."

By the look Dad gave Don, I knew he was not convinced. "Promise."

"What?" Don asked with a disbelieving laugh.

"Donnie, I want you to promise me that you will stay away from work, including shop talk, as much as possible. You need that vacation. You've been in need of one for weeks now. I'm worried about you, Son."

"Dad-" Don tried to protest.

"Let me finish," the older man cut him off. "I'm serious, Donnie. I've been trying to talk to you about this before, but there's always something coming up: more work for you rush to or you just push me away like you're trying to do now. Lately, I couldn't help but notice that you have been in darker moods. You've been more pessimistic – even looking depressed at times. There's moments when it seems you're giving up on your ability to make a difference through your job and I'm not even going to start on your hopes of having a meaningful personal life one day."

"Dad- dad, nothing's changed. This is just who I am."

"No Donnie, it's not," Dad refuted. "You're getting consumed more and more by the horrors and other liabilities you see as an FBI agent. It's time to loosen up your grip if you don't want your job to bring you downward."

I felt a pang of guilt at not noticing sooner how much Don's attitude had become more fatalistic and cynical over the past few months. Now that dad was mentioning it, the realization hit me in full force. Don _had_ changed subtly, progressively over time. Why had I not seen this coming? The analysis of Don's life which I had done following the murder of Nikki Davis had predicted that my brother would be fine mainly because of his strong family ties. Had I been too confident of those results? What if dad and I were no longer strong enough to compensate for all the bad stuff and stress Don had to live with everyday? Statistics about the rate of depression, failed relationships, and suicides among law enforcement officers assaulted my mind. Dad was right to be concerned about this change. I was getting past the simple worried stage myself.

"Dad, it's not that bad," my brother defended.

"Burnout _is_ a real thing and you, Son, are far from being sheltered from it. I'm glad you found your way back to the piano in order to relieve some of your stress. Music's a great outlet, but it might not be enough."

"What do you want from me?" Don asked clearly getting frustrated.

"First of all, just think about it," Dad began. "Second, promise me you'll take a real vacation and stay away from work for awhile. Letting go can only do you some good."

"I'll do my best," Don conceded.

"That's not good enough," Dad retorted. "Promise me."

"Alright, alright," Don gave in. "I promise to stay away from work as much as possible except for the occasional shop talk I might have with some ex-colleagues in Albuquerque. I promise I'll keep that to a minimum. Happy, now?"

Dad and I both scrutinized him for a few moments, trying to determine if he was honest with us or just telling our father what he wanted to hear. Dad finally nodded, giving Don the benefit of the doubt. I find myself doing the same. After all, Don had been looking out for himself for a long time. He had made more than one changes in his lifestyle in the past that had turned out to be positive: giving up baseball when he realized he had reached his peak, joining the FBI, quitting fugitive recovery before it totally destroyed who he was, coming home and rekindling with his family. I trusted Don to know what was good for him and surely this vacation was the proof of that.

"I'm glad you're taking some time off," I finally told my brother. "Dad's right. It will do you some good. Just remember that we're always there if you need us. Right, Dad?"

The older man nodded. "You're brother's right, Donnie,"

"Don't you worry, Buddy. I always have that in mind," he assured me.

**12344567890**

** TBC**

** A/N: Once again, thank you for all your support. It means a lot!  
**


	10. Present day: Laurie

Disclaimer: See part Prologue.

_**A/N1: Thank you Celadon for proofing this chapter. I really appreciate it..**_

**_A/NII: I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. RL happened… Xavier Rudd is an artist my roommate suggested when I asked her "To what kind of music an English Canadian flight attendant could be listening while cooking in the middle of the afternoon?" Thanks Vikie. _**

**800 Miles to Remember**

**Part 4: Present day**

**Chapter 9: **Laurie.

I rested my kitchen knife back on the cutting board by the second knock on the door. I had barely heard it over the loud music that was playing in the living room. I glanced at the micro wave's digital clock. It was 2:33 P.M. I wondered who it might be in the middle of the afternoon. Most of my neighbours were out at work. Still, I figured it had to be one of them for no one had used to exterior inter-com to announce his or her arrival and being let in the building. Maybe the landlord had let those two colleagues of Don's back in so they could have more answers to their questions. _Hey! Maybe it was D.D. himself coming to let me know that he was all right._ On that happy prospect, I hurried to the door. I lowered Xavier Rudd's voice on my way through the living room.

I quickly took a peek through the peep hole. I was disappointment to note that the man standing on the other side of the door was not Don Eppes. In fact, I almost failed to recognize my unexpected visitor. I sucked in a breath when I did. It was not in my nature to anticipate the worse out of events, but this time I could not help myself. Why would this man come to the apartment I was sharing with my husband, Marc, if it was not to deliver bad news? I opened the door with a composure I did not felt.

"Mr. Eppes, please come in." I greeted the elder man

"I'm sorry, I don't want to bother you-" he apologized.

"Don't be silly. It's no bother," I assured him as I led us both to the kitchen. "Please, have a seat." I quickly busied myself with the kettle then retrieved some rooibos tea I had imported from Africa.

"I was passing by Donnie's- Don's apartment to get a few things when I heard the music," Mr. Eppes began.

"Yes, I believe it's hard to miss from the hallway. I try to go easy on the volume when I know Don's at his place since he only uses it to catch some sleep and change clothes," I put two cups on the dining table in front of my friend's father. I took it upon myself to bring up the unavoidable question. "Don?" I asked softly. "Have they found him? Is he-?"

"He's alive," Alan Eppes reassured me with a gentle smile. "They found him a few hours ago. I can't say that he's fine, but he's alive and doing relatively well."

I dropped in a chair beside my visitor. I allowed myself a sigh of relief. "Thank God."

"I apologize, Laurie. I didn't know you were that worried. I should have told you sooner."

"That's okay, Mr. Eppes. I'm just very relieved that he's alive," I told him sincerely. "You said that he's not _fine_. What happened to him?"

"That's a question that remains to be answered," he replied as I stood up in order to remove the kettle off the stove. As I fixed us some tea, he related the little he knew about his older son showing up at a crime scene, injured and with amnesia.

"Amnesia?" I repeated baffled. "You mean, he has no idea who he is?"

"Neither could he remember Charlie or Megan. According to him, all he could recall was numbers."

"_Obviously_," I could not help myself from pointing out. My visitor gave me a dubious look. "Leave it to Don to find a way – even unconsciously – to keep communicating with his brother and looking out for his feelings. It seems to be very important to him."

"Hum…" Mr. Eppes considered for a moment. He finally nodded, agreeing with my observation. "I didn't think about it that way, but you may be right. Even at times when they were at odds with each other and/or miles apart, Don always made sure Charlie was all right – not only physically but emotionally as well. Like his mother and me, Don always protected his younger brother the best he could."

"Older brother's first responsibility," I said sympathetically.

Alan Eppes returned my smile. "Charlie said that, not only was Don sole remembering numbers, he has been coming up with equations of his own. You should have heard Charlie over the phone. He was so thrilled and amazed by the level of math his brother has been using; he was speaking a mile a minute. Donnie's an intelligent man. He never showed such an aptitude for arithmetic and statistics before, but he always scored very high on information processing and reasoning tasks. I wouldn't be too surprised to find out that he understands math better than the average person."

"And probably more than he always wanted to let on," I added. "After all, it's in the nature of siblings to try to be as different as possible from each other – or very much alike."

"You sound like someone who speaks from experience," my friend's father noted.

"Don't get me started on my relationship with my younger sister – if you could call _that_ a relationship. Things are a lot smoother with my younger brother. Anyway…" I strategically brought the discussion back to my neighbour and friend. "Based on the little I know from Don's work – he doesn't talk much about it – he has been relying a lot on Charlie's expertise to solve cases over the last few years. He had to retain some of the principles his brother taught him. Well, I know he did. I heard him refer to them on occasion."

"In truth, Donnie has been exposed to high level math ever since Charlie was three. He's aware of what makes his brother's tick and how to communicate with him. On the other hand, my youngest son has never been too good in emotionally strong situations, although he's has come great ways in coping and caring for others ever since Don came back to L.A. and exposed him to what _he_ does. They've been learning a lot from each other."

"I think you can trust them to care of each other."

"I believe you're right. Thank you, Laurie. I now feel a lot better about Charlie being alone – well, without me – over there in New Mexico"

"You're welcome, Mr. Eppes."

He took a sip of tea then looked back up at me a bit sheepishly. "You must be wondering why I came to see you."

"There's a reason other than to tell me that Don's been found _alive_?" I asked a bit teasingly.

"David Sinclair told me that you and your husband were in New Mexico with Don."

"And you're wondering why." My companion gave me a guilty smile. I leaned forward as if I would be telling him a secret. "Our band needed a piano player for a gig we did one night in Santa Fe."

Alan Eppes' eyes rounded in surprise. I cherished seeing disbelief creep upon his face. "_You_ convinced Donnie to play piano in public?"

"Well, it took some doing and it was in fact a team effort, but yeah – _we did_."

"What else did you convince my son to do?"

I grinned. "Among other things, we talked him into bringing his new girlfriend along."

"Robin."

"You mean, Erin," I corrected him. "Robin has been past history for weeks now."

"Really?" Mr. Eppes questioned, taken aback once again.

"D.D. didn't tell you that she dumped him, did he?"

"He indeed failed to mention that," Don's father said as he reached for his cup of tea. "_She_ dumped him, huh? I guess he's making some progress after all."

"You call that progress?" I asked. It was my turned to be dubious.

"Definitely," the older man replied.

"Well, I'm interested in knowing what's behind that affirmation," I told him.

"It will be my pleasure to elaborate on that matter if you tell me about this Erin."

"Deal," I agreed with a wicked grin. "Would you like more tea?"

"Yes, please. Oh, and Laurie, what does _D.D._ stands for?"

**1234567890**

**TBC**

**A/N: Again thank you for reading. I hope you liked it and that it was worth the wait. **


	11. Present day: Don

Disclaimer: See part Prologue.

**_A/N: I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. RL took a toll and didn't leave much energy and time to write. Thanks Celadon for beta-reading this chapter – twice. Thank you all for reading. _**

**800 Miles to Remember**

**Part 4: Present day**

**Chapter 10: ** Don

The beam of my flashlight rested on the number "8". It had been painted in a dark red color on the rudimentary wooded door. There was something odd about that "8". I was about to reach for the number and trace it with my index finger when I realized that what I was about to touch was not paint – well, not the kind in use today. What I was about to touch was _blood_.

I cursed under my breath. Instinctively, my left hand found its position back around my right wrist, supporting the hand that was holding my gun. I scrutinized my surroundings with an even higher level of alertness. I could not make out much in this darkness other than the fact that I was leaving myself exposed to trouble – very big trouble. Coming here had been a bad judgment call. Doing so alone had been an even worse one.

"Eppes, what the hell are you doing here?" I chided myself. What was this place anyway? At that very moment, I had no idea of where I was, of what had brought me here, and of how I had gotten myself in the middle of nowhere.

I drew in a deep breath. It calmed down my edgy nerves and helped me keep a cool head. One could probably doubt it by my present lack of good judgment, but I was a trained FBI agent. I had been taught to handle eerie situations like these – well, one would have thought so anyway. I took a step back towards my car, deciding that whatever it was I was trying to accomplish was not worth getting killed stupidly.

I slowly made my way in the dark. I could feel the cold wind brush my face. I could hear the flow of the nearby river. Everything was calm – too calm. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe I was imagining dangers that were not there after all. Regardless, my instincts were telling me that the faster I got out of here, the better.

I turned to face my car. I was about ready to open the driver's door when it hit me – the pain. Sharp and burning pain unceremoniously tackled me to the ground, steeling my breath away.

"Breathe!" I ordered myself. "Just inhale then turned around." I could not stay face down and unprotected on the ground. Whoever had struck me was bound to come closer in order to finish the job. I was not going to end up shot in the back only God knew where for no reason at all. I was going to roll on my back and meet my fate in the eye.

I inhaled deeply. I felt my heartbeat go up a notch and my muscles contract, ready for a fight. I swiftly rotated to the right. Pain assaulted my back as soon as it hit the ground. My body jerked upward in a futile effort to protect itself. I almost screamed. Maybe I did. I could not care less. All that mattered was that I keep my eyes opened, but even that proved to fail me as tears blurred my vision. My lids closed involuntarily.

When I opened my eyes again, I was unprepared for the beam of my flashlight being shone into my face. I tried to get away from its stabbing brightness. I moved my head from side to side then attempted to roll back on my stomach. That's when I felt the first restraint on my arms. It was too late. Incredible force was pinning me down and intercepting every move I made. I felt my anger surge into my chest. _No!_ I was not going to die that way.

_Eppes, you're going to keep on putting up a fight._

Yet, despite my resolve, I felt my strength melt away as a warm sensation coursed through my body. Funny, I expected death to be cold. I felt myself relax. My ragged breathing slowly evened out. With the dying sound of my heart rate beating in my ears, came her voice.

_Her voice… Soothing and caring_.

"Don… Don't struggle… We're giving you something for the pain… That's it, D.D… You can relax, now… You're safe. You're in the hospital… You're going to be okay."

_Her voice…_ Its gentleness and the reassurances of her words lulled me back to a welcome darkness.

**1234567890**

**TBC**

**A/N: Again thank you for reading. I hope you liked it and that it was worth the wait. **


	12. Present day: Charlie

Disclaimer: See part Prologue.

_**A/N: Celadon, Thank you so much for beta-reading the story. What would I do without you??!! **_

**800 Miles to Remember**

**Part 4: Present day**

**Chapter 11: **Charlie.

"Erin?" I repeated. "Don never talked to me about any Erin. I didn't even know that Robin dumped him." I told my father. "Had he told you?"

"No. I'm afraid your brother wasn't forthcoming on that issue with me either," Dad answered from the house in LA. "I guess he wasn't ready to tell us."

"Why wouldn't he talk to us about it? Why doesn't he ever talk to us about what he's going through?" I asked, frustrated. "We're his family."

"Charlie, your brother's used to dealing with things on his own. He's done it for a very long time," Dad pointed out. "He's been opening a lot more over the last year or so, but he's always going to be a private man. We can't expect him to disclose all his feelings or what's going on in his life just because we would like him to do so."

"I know that, Dad, but in this case more disclosure would be helpful. How am I supposed to help him remember who he is, if _I don__'__t know who is_?"

"Charlie, you _do know_ who your brother is," my father assured me over the phone. "Not only have you come to know him professionally, you also seen him interact with us at the house. You know more than you think you do. Besides, what's important to keep in mind is that Donnie's a dedicated FBI agent. He's also a very loyal friend and, most of all, someone who cares about his own. Charlie, he will remember you because he loves you very much. The rest is just superficial data."

"Well at the moment, this superficial data, as you say, could help us figure out what happened to him two days ago. More importantly, this data could tell us if he or someone else is still in immediate danger from that Yucca killer. Maybe they even could lead us to him so that FBI could stop him once and for all. Do you understand how important this is?"

"Charlie, I understand," my father replied. "All I'm asking you is to be patient. The doctors assured you that since there isn't any permanent damage to his brain from his head injury, that most of Donnie's memories should come back with time."

"Yes, _most_ of them," I emphasized. "According to Doctor Hatfield, Don should progressively remember stuff over time starting with the most distant events leading up to the injury, but he may not make a complete recovery. He might never be able to recall the last few minutes before the incident, maybe more. How can I prompt his memory or validate their accuracy if I know so little about him?"

"Charlie, at the moment you're scared because you feel you don't have enough data to explain to your brother who he is, but Donnie has that data. Don't try to explain and validate, just be there when his memory is going to return. When the time comes to validate anything, Donnie will be able to count on the help of his co-workers, his friends, you, and me. Let's take this one step at the time and see what he'll remember when he wakes up."

I sighed. "That's what Doctor Hatfield said, too. She also said that Don might suffer from some retrograde and anterograde amnesia. What complicates matters is that Don was exhausted and that his body went into a severe shock. We don't even know when he hit his head and since when he started having memory issues. According to what Don told Detective Saunders, the first thing he remembered was driving on the interstate. It's unclear if he's going to remember that once he wakes up or not. He might not even remember talking with me at the scene."

"What's the difference between the two kinds of amnesia?" Dad asked me.

"Anterograde amnesia is a loss of memory for any event occurring after the injury," I explained. "Retrograde amnesia involves a loss of memory for any event prior to the critical injury."

"I see. So, Don has a serious case of retrograde amnesia since he doesn't remember who he is at all and a less serious one of anterograde since he could remember driving and going places."

"That's sounds right," I agreed. "Although, I'm not sure how to explain the fact that all he could recall was numbers and how he suddenly became so proficient in math."

"Well, Laurie and me have our idea on that question," Dad said. "We think it's a way for Don to keep communicating with you."

"With _me_?"

"Yes, Charlie. Your approach to solving crime using applied mathematics has given you both a common ground," my father explained. "From what you told me, Donnie might not recall the details of his life, but his personality doesn't seemed to have changed. He's an investigator. As such, he has tried to piece back his memory by _investigating_ one lead after another. Furthermore, in the last few years, he had done so with _your help_."

"It's like Megan said, Don's been exposed to what I do as much as I've been exposed to what he does. It's even more so for him since he's been exposed to my math ever since I was a kid."

"It's a conclusion that Laurie and I also came to," Dad said. "Charlie, you're always going to be important for your brother regardless if he can remember your name or not. You're part of who he is. Even when Donnie was away from home, he always cared about your well being. You two had your problems like any other siblings, but Donnie always tried to looked out for you and protect you. As I know, you always tried to keep the communication open."

"Not always," I refuted sadly.

"You two might not have succeeded all the time – there're been years during which you hardly spoke to one another, times when you hurt each other – but your good intentions were always there. If not, our family wouldn't have grown the way it did. Over time, we all became closer to each other. This is one of the reasons why Donnie's slowly but surely trusting us with his feelings a lot more. But Charlie," Dad added on that cautious tone. "Your brother will never be an open book and there are a lot of things he will never share with us. We have to accept that and work with it."

"I know. I just wish-" my voiced cracked. "I just wish I could make it easier for him."

"Just having you there with him is going to make things easier for him. Trust me," Dad comforted me. "Just take it one memory at a time and keep in mind that you two are not alone. You're surrounded by a lot of people who know Donnie and care about him."

"You're right. Of course, you're right. I will," I promised. "I should go back. Megan will pick you up at the airport if you don't mind."

"It's all right, Son. See you tonight."

"See you- Oh and Dad-" I drew in a breath hoping it would settle my voice. "I love you."

"I love you too, Charlie. I love both of you."

**1234567890**

**TBC**

**A/N: This chapter didn****'****t really go where I intended for it to go. In the end, I feel it****'****s a bit redundant, but what can I say? Charlie really needed to be comforted by Alan. I hope you liked it. **


	13. 2 days ealier:Clinton

Disclaimer: See part Prologue.

_**A/N: I know… It's been awhile. I had to change perspective in many ways in order to lure my muse back. Once again, I am very grateful to my beta, Celadon. Thanks, C!!! **_

**800 Miles to Remember**

**Part 5: Two days earlier. **

**Chapter 12: Clinton**

I grunted at the ring sound coming from the bedside table. Its two short shrills told me the incoming call was a long distance.

"It's probably for you," Michele said sleepily.

"Probably," I agreed with my wife. Being the Special Agent in Charge for the FBI's office in Albuquerque had its drawbacks. One was the flow of phone calls that could come in to the house at all hours. I extended my arm and grabbed the cordless phone from its stand. "Hello?" I tried not to sound too pissed off or drowsy.

"Clinton. It's Don Eppes," my interlocutor quickly introduced himself.

"D.D.?" I asked, taken aback. Eppes had not called my house in the middle of the night ever since he had been my SAC. "It's-"

"Five twenty-four in the morning, I know," he cut me off before my eyes could find the alarm clock by the bed.

"You made it back to L.A. okay?"

"Not quite," he replied ambiguously. "I'm at the hospital in Socorro."

"Hospital?" I was fully awake now. I levelled myself up on my elbows. "Don, what's going on?"

I felt my wife move beside me. "Is he all right?" she asked worriedly.

"I found the Yucca Killer's latest victim: A young boy, about 8 years old. He's still alive, but he's in pretty bad shape. I found him in a greenhouse by the Rio Grande. It was a trap. YK knew I was coming. We barely made it out on time."

"_We_ – as you and the boy?"

"Affirmative," he clarified.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I'm fine," D.D. gave me his usual answer.

Michele put a hand on my harm. She wanted to know, too. I mouthed Don's response to her.

"Sometimes I wonder why we bother to ask," she said.

Ignoring Michele, I gave Don my full attention back. "What do you mean: _he knew you were coming_?"

"It's a long story," he replied evasively.

I did not like the sound of that. "I'll be expecting all the details," I told him seriously. "Eppes, you better not have gone playing vigilante during that vacation of yours."

"The vacation was over, yesterday," he pointed out. His tone suddenly sounding weary, he added, "I could have done without this, trust me. Clinton, YK is still in the area. You better get a team together fast and get down here. Meanwhile, I'll coordinate with the local P.D. I'll wait for you at Socorro General."

"All right." We agreed to meet at 8:30 A.M. in the hospital main lobby.

1234567890

For the second time this morning, I exited the Socorro General hospital from the main entrance. I quickly drew in a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. I was glad to be out. For a man married to a medical doctor, it was somewhat ironic how much I could despise hospitals. To be honest, such places often reminded me of how troubled I could be by the suffering of the living. It was always easier to deal with the dead – probably because the dead had stop suffering.

"_There are all kinds of suffering,_" my wife would point out. "_W_e _all suffer to some extent. Even the Lord suffered,_" she would further remind me. "_Thus, we all know what suffering is and how it feels. It's part of our nature. You're human, Clint. It's only normal that you should be disturbed by the suffering of others._"

My wife, Michele, had devoted her life to ease that human suffering. Despite all she had seen over the years – all the mutilations, the diseases, the pains and the sorrows – her faith had never wavered. Mine, on the other hand, did from time to time.

Monsters such as the Yucca Killer made me question my beliefs in God and in the fundamental goodness of humanity. If all creatures were the creations of the Lord, how could we explain these murderers, rapists, and terrorists that were justifying my job? Were they really all born innocent souls, eventually corrupted by Satan?

Maybe all these evil creatures were our own doing? Or, maybe our species had endured so much already that some of us had mutated into suffering-inducing-mutants? Then again, maybe aliens did exist. Now there was a potential debate with my wife that I knew to avoid, even in a drunken state. Whatever the truth was, the fact remained that one of my friends and colleagues had rescued a young boy from the grip of one of those monsters and was now nowhere to be found.

I eyeballed the visitors' parking lot again. It was now passed 9:30 in the morning. Roughly forty cars were already lined up in three neat rows. As expected, there were no signs of the silver Mitsubishi 4-door sedan D.D. had showed up with in Santa Fe a few days ago. I slipped my sunglasses back on and joined Agent Alejo Cruz Ramirez on the grounds of the hospital parking lot. He was kneeling on the pavement, working on removing a metal grid covering a street drain. "What have you got?"

"Agent Eppes's cell phone," my partner answered. "We tracked it down using its GPS chip. I gathered he still hasn't returned to follow up on the victim."

"No," I confirmed.

I retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the left pocket of my FBI windbreaker and put them on. Meanwhile, Ramirez was lowering his right arm into the drain's rectangular opening. He produced a black flip cell phone a few moments later and handed it over to me.

The phone's casing was cracked, but the cell was still functional. I hit the redial function and got my home number. I was the last person Don had talked to before disappearing. The caller ID list told me that a number of people had tried to reach him in the last four hours: myself, Megan Reeves, members of my team, the local P.D., and the Hospital Security. As I scrolled further down, I recognized the names of some of our common friends here in New Mexico. Don's brother and his father had also called him during the last few days.

"I don't like this," I said, not for the first time that day. "Don Eppes is one of the best agents I ever work with. He's no amateur. He's careful, dependable and thorough. He's not the kind of guy who would just lose his cell phone. Something happened to him in this parking lot."

"Yeah, but what and where?" Ramirez questioned. "Are we sure that the guy who dropped the victim was him?"

"We barely see him on the security cameras. But I'm pretty sure it was him. The man who dropped the boy was about Eppes build. He was wearing an FBI cap. His clothes were filthy and covered with blood. He might have been injured to a leg or something. He was limping on the left side. He rushed in. He handed the child to a nurse. He told her he would be back in a minute. He rushed back out."

"But he never came back," Ramirez concluded.

I nodded. "At first, the ER staff was busy with the boy. When they realized that the Agent that had brought him in had still not returned, they asked Security to put out a search for him. They feared he might have lost consciousness somewhere. As you know, they placed a call to the Bureau to report him missing forty-five minutes later. Now, it's been four hours since he called my house. We've got two crime scenes, a victim, an FBI windbreaker, Don's badge, his phone, but no car, no gun, _and_ no Don."

"And no Yucca Killer," my partner quickly added.

"Yeah," I muttered. I didn't like that either. "Alright, call back some ERT techs from the greenhouse and have them go over the parking lots. Also, see what they can do with the cell phone."

"Will do," Ramirez said. "Anything from the boy?"

I shook my head and sighed heavily. Once more, I felt saddened and angry by what I had seen in that hospital – by what had been done to that little boy. "I don't think we'll be able to talk to him anytime soon. The kid is barely alive. The prognosis is not good."

Ramirez nodded with solemn expression on his face. He met my gaze. "We'll find Eppes," he said in a valiant effort to cheer me up.

"Of that, there's no doubt," I replied grimly. I could only hope that we would find him alive.

**1234567890**

**TBC**

**A/N: Thank you for staying in touch with this story ****despite the delay. **


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